#142 The Vertebral Bridge

by Beverly A. Jackson

I really must finish this bridge before I die.

I have been trying to cross the water for decades now. I cannot be sure if it’s canal, river, or lake. It is not ocean as I can see the other shore: tall buildings, trees with large apes swinging from them, and moving dots of monkeys that from this isolated perspective, one assumes to be human. Sometimes I am relieved to be on my safe, snug island.

The boats that speed past on sunny days do not stop here. It’s as if my place is an imaginary plot, existing only in my mind. Perhaps I myself am imagined by me, and also invisible. For this reason, I must keep building until the bridge is finished.

I eat and sleep alone. I have learned to flute my voice, making sounds that cause macaws to turn their colorful heads. We understand each other perfectly. Fish jump into my arms at the edge of the water. It is their little bones, braided together in beautiful patterns that I use to make the framework for my bridge.

If I arrive on the other side, I fear the inane scramble of living, warring, worshipping and dying shall pass me by, and there or here, I will be alone. But there’s that doubt—what if I’m wrong? And so I do my own complicated fabrications with the promise of certainty as my reward.